The Affliction, the Substitute and the Remedy
by sangre antigua
Summary: Dean is in love with Castiel, but has sought out a way to relieve his desires. Dean/OC, Dean/Castiel
1. Chapter 1

**Author:** sangre antigua.

**Rating; Title; Pairing:** M; The Affliction, the Substitute and the Remedy; Dean/OC, Dean/Castiel.

**Summary:** Dean is in love with Castiel, but has sought out a way to relieve his desires. [Dean/OC, Dean/Castiel]

**Warning/Disclaimer:** Do not own _Supernatural. _Slash. If you don't like it, don't read it.

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Dean Winchester didn't enjoy paying for sex. He had only done it once or twice, when he had been having a dry-spell, and it always left a bad taste in his mouth. But he had to do it. Not doing it would certainly end in him losing his mind, thus going off the deep-end and getting himself killed in a job.

No normal hooker would do. The hooker he had to have needed blue eyes; large cerulean pools that engulfed Dean's whole being, big enough to swim in and blue enough to be mistaken for the afternoon sky. The hooker needed an innocent face and smooth skin, the kind almost too pure to touch but at the same time too supple not to stroke adoringly. The hooker needed to listen to everything Dean said during sex, taking each hint to heart and complying obediently. The hooker needed to be a little shorter than him with a tan tint to their skin and wild, cow-licked black hair.

The hooker needed to be male, and he needed to look like Castiel.

He had shopped around as they traveled, picking up articles of clothing that looked like the set Castiel wore day in and day out. They were kept in a trash bag in a compartment in the trunk of the Impala, a compartment secret from even Sam. It required a key to open, a key which was stored away in the glove box. It laid in small cut-out space in a manual that had yellowed from lack of use. It was an instruction manual for oil changing, and, seeing as Dean could change the oil of damn-near anything with his eyes closed and a bad case of lobster-claw syndrome, he hadn't any purpose for it. The only flaw with that arrangement was that Sam didn't know how to change the oil. Of anything. If he borrowed the Impala and Dean had just-so managed to forget to change the oil of his precious baby, leaving Sam to change it himself, then the key would be exposed and Sam would nag him until his death about its purpose. About the lock that sat in silence, waiting for the piece to make it whole. Thus, the key would be moved if the hunter felt paranoid. It would rest beneath the pad in his shoe. The imprint it left was a reminder to keep Dean from losing it.

If the impression felt empty, then Dean would worry.

The fetish he had developed for the angel had to be kept secret at all costs, and, as far as he could tell, no one had caught on yet. God forbid they did. The angel didn't act anything shy of normal around him, and Sam was as clueless as ever when it came to Dean's emotions. The hunter went to extreme measures to keep it that way, though he had slipped up several times. He tended to hit on girls with so much fervor that it frightened both parties if their names even remotely resembled the angel's own. Blue-eyed girls were had quickly become his favorite, and sometimes he found himself hitting on lesbians he knew had no eyes for him, solely because their hair resembled Castiel's. It was a sickness; the most perfect affliction Dean could ever ask for. If only he didn't have to hide it from everyone the way he did. That was for the best, he deemed, keeping it hidden so far away from the light of day that not a soul else would ever find out.

The thought of Sam and Bobby's reaction to his "lifestyle choice" made Dean visibly cringe. The epitome of all things manly; the definition of "lady's man". That was Dean. If word got out about his bisexuality, his sexual reputation would not only be altered completely, but he feared his reputation as hunter, as well. Hunters weren't exactly known for their acceptance to things of that caliber.

What to expect from Sam, Dean couldn't hazard a guess. The other hunter disliked to hear about his brother's sexual endeavors when they involved women and whether or not Sam was homophobic was beyond him. But better safe than sorry.

"Where are you going?" Sam lay stretched out on his motel bed, his arms behind his head and his long legs spread beneath the comforter. Shampoo and Dial soap perfumed his body, the pillowcase damp due to his still wet hair. They had had a long evening, once again investigating the recent deaths of five women in an apartment mainly inhabited by immigrants. The women had all been gutted and sown back up, their bones decorated in a sadistic manner. They had no good leads as to the culprit, though they had been on the job for almost a whole week. Bobby was working on it, his coffeepot full and his phone charged and ready to use as necessary.

Dean shrugged on his leather jacket before giving himself a once-over in the motel-room mirror. He had just showered and smelt like Old Spice, his mouth as minty as the tube of toothpaste insured. He looked perfect—distinctly himself.

It had taken him three nights to find a hooker that looked like Castiel. His eyes were blue, but the shade was much murkier. The color was more of hot water than cool, crisp pools. Though they were nearly as calculating as Castiel's own, there was a corruption in them that could never be hidden. It was the dark flame keeping the pools hot, the intensity of all he had seen birthing blushes in even the most... "learned" of persons.

Besides his eyes, he was a little shorter than Dean, and he was lean.

The only major difference, other than the lack of the cute little quirk Castiel offered when something didn't register, was the hair. The male's hair was a dark brown, not black. The difference didn't bother him at first, as he figured they would be in the dark. But as the seconds ticked by, it ate away at him. He wanted the lights to be on, as to explore the body to his fullest abilities. That would cause the light to shine in his hair and Dean's dream to fade away with the blinding, bleaching realization that, no, the male beneath Dean's body was not his angel.

"Out," was Dean's answer, short and sweet and curt, to boot. He tossed the keys in the air a few times before snatching them back. "I'll be back before you wake up, don't worry." A genuine, award winning smile was offered to Sam as proof to Dean's words. That smile could melt the panties off of almost anyone, and Dean knew it. But it wouldn't work on the one person he wanted it to. A twinge of sadness plucked at his heartstrings and Dean clamped his jaw tightly. Best not think about that before the big event. "Sleep tight, Sammy. Don't grow a vagina, move into an immigrant apartment and have your insides ripped apart and carved into."

Dean walked slow enough out of the motel-room to watch his brother bitch-face. His chuckle echoed, following him quietly all the way to the Impala. Sweat coated his palms and his lips never seemed to stay wet enough. Nerves wracked through Dean's body, yelling at him to stop what he was doing. At the same time, anxiousness surged through his veins, compelling him to keep going. He silenced them both and went with his plan. He had already given over the clothes and had already paid for the hotel room. This was happening, no matter what.

If this didn't end in sex, Dean had a trunk full of liquor to console himself. The hunter had never, ever thought so far ahead before. Unfortunately, if that happened, he would be breaking his promise to Sam.

Fortunately, it wasn't as if Sam was expecting him back.

The motel was nice, with lush comforters and that freshly cleaned smell. It had cost him an arm and a leg, but nothing was too good. There couldn't be such a thing as "too perfect" tonight. Even if things were deemed "perfect", Dean would strive for more.

When he got there, his "date" was pacing about, just as Dean had instructed. He turned around upon hearing the door open, his face styled as if he had learned it straight from Dean's angel. Everything Dean had solicited had been taken to heart, and it was beautiful.

"Dean," he said, taking a step forward. The trench coat he wore gently lapped at his calves.

"Castiel," Dean whispered back.

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Lobster-Claw Syndrome is formally known as "Ectrodactyly", just so you all know. More whenever I get around to it. Feedback is love.


	2. Chapter 2

They met in the middle of the room, their eyes locked. The other's eyes were pits of blue fire, and it hurt to make contact with them. So Dean fixated on his lips, soft and pink and full. He leaned forward to place a kiss on them, but was shut down as the prostitute moved to the side.

"I don't kiss," was breathed against Dean's ear, a hint of sadness to his voice.

Again, his heartstrings were tugged at, causing Dean to close his eyes to withstand the blow. No kissing―no kissing his Castiel. Wasn't that the story of his life? "Just once, please." He felt so low, begging a prostitute dressed up as his angel to kiss him. This was sin on a whole new level. What level of Hell did these deeds entail?

Sympathetic to Dean's plight, his makeshift Castiel nudged his face to the side. His lips were soft against Dean's own and they fit against Dean's own like puzzle pieces. He tasted faintly of rum and spearmint. As Dean leaned in to deepen the kiss, the other male whimpered, his signal for Dean to stop. The urge to keep kissing was strong—it had been so long since someone had _asked _to kiss him, and then kissed him in such a loving way—but they had to part. He had agreed to only one kiss, and if he kept kissing this beautiful sad puppy before him, he would lose his stable mental footing. If they didn't kiss, there was no attachment. And if there was no attachment, there was no room to be hurt. The prostitute always heard stories about clients falling in love with their prostitutes and being whisked away into the night for a better life. He had also heard about prostitutes falling in nonreciprocal love with their clients, and having their hearts smashed to the point of being fine powder. This Dean character was so in love with this Castiel that there would be no room for anyone else.

When the kiss was broken, their foreheads rested together, Dean's eyes closed and the prostitute's studying Dean's face. "Thank you for...y'know...letting me set this up this way..." Dean whispered, keeping his voice audible enough for the other to hear. For emphasis, he rubbed up the other's back, inwardly reveling in the softness of the trench coat against the roughness of his palm. "Especially for letting me call you Castiel."

The prostitute nodded, but otherwise kept to himself. This liaison was nothing new to him. His role was to play someone else for the client, whether the client recognized it or not. The job was to play a lover, a companion—if only for one night. The companion could be nameless, faceless; simply a body to love on and to be loved by. Or it could be staged to be someone they desired, but could never have. He would never be Brice, the boy who had been dealt bad cards in life. He would never be the innocent, sweet high schooler that people relied on. Only the prostitute; a lifelike toy to be used and then set aside as time ticked away.

They were silent for a moment, Dean's hand absently trailing up and down the other's trench coat. Dean didn't know how to go about this—he had never staged a....transaction like this. The few others had just fallen into place, starting with sex and ending with money. This had started with careful planning, would turn to sex, and would end in heartbreak. He sighed to himself and whispered, "Lay on the bed, Castiel."

With his Castiel on the bed, Dean took a second to take him in up and down. Just like Castiel, only a little thinner. He couldn't have found a better doppelganger if he had searched for months. That sent off sirens in the hunter's head, telling him just how meant to be he and Castiel were. If only it were that simple.

As gingerly as he could muster, Dean unbuttoned the trench coat and then the button-up covering Brice's chest. He would never admit it, but his hands were unsteady and sweaty; his brain was swimming with questions about his existence and how he had let himself get this lost in lust. Too late for those questions, though. He preoccupied himself with rowing kisses up and down the now exposed flesh, with marveling in the deep breaths the body took in response. The occasional nip was offered to the other's nipples, causing his breathing to become even more audible. There was a tingling sensation coursing up and down Dean's spine and a buzzing, droning noise in his ears. This all was so surreal.

The pants were the next to go. He fidgeted with the clasp for a moment, the primitive action of slipping the button through its slot alluding him. When he finally got the contraption to comply, he laid them on the bed beside them. Foreplay had never made him this nervous, even when he lost his virginity. It had come naturally to him, as if he had tapped into the well of raw sexuality that he would later use to bed a good portion of the female—and male—population of the United States. But foreplay had never involved someone like Castiel—someone he was completely and sinfully smitten with.

Next went the boxers, Dean kissing lines across the viewable flesh as the cloth descended down, inch by inch. His partner's erection was prominent in its stiffness, and heat radiated from it like nothing Dean had ever experienced. If he was that warm there, how warm would he be inside? Castiel _did_ radiate goodness and innocence, though. He burnt away sin and cleansed things. All the more reason why this, right here, would be all they would ever have outside of their off-brand of friendship.

Having attention paid so closely to Brice, himself, was a new experience. Sex with the normal client involved rough, greedy hands and a mindset that screamed, "Me, me, me, me" without any room for, "You." These careful touches and gentle kisses lit fires within his veins and brought his blood to a boil. Half of the time he worked, he didn't even get an erection. But here he was, mostly naked with Dean fully dressed, and he was at full attention. He resolved to change that fact. He pulled on Dean's jacket and shirt, tossing both carelessly to the floor. Dean's eyes were so passionate, pools of molten emeralds and amber.

He was then allowed to move Dean onto the bed, to undress him further until they were both completely exposed. Straddling his customer, the makeshift Castiel ground down against Dean until he could feel the erection rubbing against his backside. He reached over into the pants beside them and fished out a condom, Dean's hands trailing up and down his chest all the while. Within seconds Dean's erection was sheathed by the latex. Dean gave a soft whispered moan as Brice eased down on his erection. The heat of the other's entrance birthed goosebumps along Dean's arms.

Sex was nothing new to Brice, but sex with Dean was a totally different experience. He was attuned with the needs of his partner, knowing just when to grind and when to thrust, where to kiss and where to bite. Skillfully he would turn Brice this way and that, never losing time or rhythm. Every move was seamless and beautiful, as if he had crafted it beforehand. His lips were everywhere at once, leaving kisses along Brice's flesh that seared deliciously, and his warm, calloused fingers kept Brice's mind and body from floating away.

This Castiel, Brice decided, stars flashing against his eyelids as Dean hit his prostate, didn't know what he was missing.

Throughout the act, Dean mumbled Castiel's name, softly at first, into the prostitute's neck. But as he grew nearer and nearer to his climax, his thrusts becoming more demanding and the gentle purrs became moans and pleas. He gripped the body, now below him, with such needs that a white tint shaded the tops of his knuckles. If it fazed the other male, he didn't show it. His back was still arched in pleasure and his mouth was still contorted in a delicate 'o'.

Dean was so lost in his bliss, in the body beneath him, that he didn't hear the faint fluttering of wings. Either time.

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O:!

Sorry that took forever. My muse kinda went A.W.O.L. for a bit there. More when I get around to it.

Reviews are love. (:


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